


100 scabs

by castrumcruentus



Category: Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Eventual Romance, M/M, One Shot Collection, Pining, Pre Season 2, matt is a gross little teen, mello is an egotistical little mafia boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29250357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castrumcruentus/pseuds/castrumcruentus
Summary: singing in unison. because being a teenager is hard enough without your best friend abandoning you to catch Kira. (series of one shots, reuploaded and reworked!)
Relationships: Matt | Mail Jeevas/Mello | Mihael Keehl
Kudos: 8





	1. dirtbag

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO WE ARE BAAAAACK!!!
> 
> I am so sorry for deleting 100 scabs friends- my downfall has always been linear multichap fics and I thought I'd be better at them when I started this but that definitely proved not to be the case! I am so excited to start reuploading chapters and instead of it being a linear story, each chapter is a bite sized scene that takes place either before season 2 up until post canon. 
> 
> writing teenage matt and mello before we see them in season 2 and filling in the "how did they get back together" time is my favourite thing on this earth so i hope to explore that a little more. this first chapter is a vivid look at matt living on his own for the first time and i loved getting to take the opportunity to do a deep dive on it.
> 
> if u rly wanna set the scene, enjoy this playlist i made specifically for this chapter! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7nIEipheClLpr0RJ3CgTv5?si=DI4AAAGVTnWIGhRO5cv-Vw

Its 2:37 am.

The apartment he was renting was a disaster, but an anticipated disaster. Wires were crossed like a thread-bare sweater pulled to tatters across the floor, tangling and bunching up around table legs and chairs where he was too lazy to fix them. Plastic bags were discarded without concern on the stained carpet, various thrift shops and dollar store logos emblazoned on the front. A surge protector in one, 2 pairs of socks in the other. There were few places in LA that would take him as a solo renter, but functionality didn't mean a lot at this point. Could he smoke inside? Fine. A sink? Even better. At least he'd have some place to wash his hair when even _he_ couldn't ignore the smell.

"Agh—Who even sells this shit."

The walls were yellow with cigarette smoke, stained long ago from tenants before him. His suitcase was still strewn across the floor in what in theory was the bedroom, its owner continually pulling clothing from its interior until he'd eventually run out and have to do the laundry. The thought was anxiety inducing- _do you put the detergent in before or after the clothes?_ He'd cross that bridge when he got to it. If he could push it for just another month, he'd be golden. Black jeans, ill-fitting boxers, and striped shirts filled the inside, yellow tinted goggles shimmering with anticipation from within. 

It was clear the suitcase was packed with haste, not a single piece of clothing folded as each article was creased deeply and haphazardly. There were a few pictures inside, faded and crinkled with desperate thumbing, along with a few video games, a charging cord, and a few notebooks. Filled with memories he'll address later.

Just not today.

Loose corn flakes, crusted bowls with abandoned ramen noodles encased in mold rattled lonely on the counter, never to be used again.

There's a few tiny, white pills carefully pressed in the middle near the sink, scattered loosely in the bathroom. Ritalin for the ADHD, of course. Purchased definitely legally off a blindingly bright website that advertised cheap prescription fills with “In-House Pharmacists” he was almost positive didn’t exist. Not that it was an issue- it kept him focussed, his frame willowing, and sleep more of a suggestion rather than a necessity.

Matt wiped his dripping nose on his crusty sleeve.

He was 16, and it wasn't his job to keep a presentable space.

"Fuck—Seriously."

A fleece blanket with two tigers roaming through a bamboo forest was slung haphazardly over the black pleather couch he sat at, blinding light from various screens reflected in his eyes, unblinking. It was a pain having to switch each new processor over to Linux upon their arrival, but working with anything less meant disaster- he was thorough if not obsessive when it came to his work, despite the personal landfill collecting around him. It was these shit computers he kept picking up at any basement electronics store he came across that were causing the problems, not him.

The world seemed unfathomably vast here without the crushing limitations of Wammys- and every buzzing neon sign that promised discounted electronics 8-10 years too old felt almost erotic in their temptation. How could places like this even exist? But the piles upon piles of garbage monitors and USB keys and cameras that he'd bought on impulse were now collecting dust around him, his naivety shedding away like a cocoon the longer he stayed in LA.

Frustrated, he slammed his hands on the keyboard and stood up abruptly, jamming the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbing with vigour. In his wake, the mouse slipped off the table, only causing him to fly further into his frustrated rage as it clattered to the ground, batteries popping out and rolling under the couch.

"God—Fucking damn it-"

He kicked the leg of the coffee table with intensity, immediately wincing as his bare toes made contact with the wood. Fucking, _ouch_.

There's a moment of clarity as he snapped from his screen driven haze, the mugginess of the room and the pile ups of garbage gathering around him with intimidating and looming size. The fridge hummed weakly in the background, there's a drip in the kitchen sink he just can't figure out how to stop. A surge of anxiety, a sudden awareness of the filth around him—

_ What am I doing here. _

_ … _

And then it passed. He flopped down again, overwhelmed with the task surrounding, and instead reached for the well-loved ridges of his game cube controller, booting up Fifa '03 and sinking gently into the squeaking fabric around him. He had tunnel vision when he wanted to.

Today he really wanted to.

Matt had lived in this place just 3 days shy of a month, and still hadn't found a single golden hair from Mello's head floating through the streets that he knew somehow harboured his friend. It had taken an embarrassingly long year for him to process his anger, his grief, his desperation- before succumbing to overwhelming FOMO and fleeing into the night just as Mello did. It was easier than he could have anticipated, but reflecting on it now, he's sure that Roger knew. As children, the creaking floors of the house were a dead giveaway lest anyone attempt an escape, and he was sure that every single inhabitant of that looming orphanage heard him tearing with reckless abandon down the stairs and out the front door.

The suitcase his mother had dropped him off with clattered angrily against the wooden door frames as he rounded each tight corner, announcing to everyone in earshot that he was _finally fucking leaving._ And no one stopped him.

He was a lot less coordinated and confident than Mello was, but that was the norm.

Matt was always just a lot less everything.

… The thought upset him, and he was shaken from his daydream at the roaring crowd cheering in the digital stands, jeering his losses against tinny and baseless speakers. Time didn’t mean a whole lot here- hours spent mindlessly cracking energy drinks and building shadow accounts to torment some none the wiser stranger in online forums meant he could spend as much time as he wanted doing nothing. 

Going to get something sweet sounded like heaven, however, and after taking a slightly fearful peek into his wallet, a smiling $20 bill had his mind made up.

“I’ll deal with you later.” He mumbled pointedly, sticking his tongue out at his Game Cube. 

Whatever.

Matt groaned, standing once more and stretching up onto his tip toes, bones creaking and snapping as his spine realigned from its nearly permanently hunched position. His long sleeve shirt creeped just below his belly button as he stood, yanking up his pants for good measure and heading for the door. The first thing he did when he moved here was install the best security system he could afford, the motion sensor beeping relentlessly when even a shadow passed. The sound rang in his ears, and he paused for just a tiny, lost second before slamming the door behind him. Three locks were drilled poorly into the door, but they'd do the job. He couldn't afford to lose his equipment.

Jingling through his pockets, he pulls the first key attached to his jean chain, silver and ridged- the actual apartment lock key he'd been given upon moving.

_ Click. _

The second, squat and gold came from a lock he'd picked up from a storage locker bidding war.

_ Click. _

The last, thin and silver, was expensive- it thunks shut with just a little more effort. Matt's feeble, adolescent wrists seem barely able to turn it shut.

_ Click. _

And he's off, cigarette tossed familiarly onto his dry bottom lip and hands jammed down his jean pockets. The lighter clicked effortless with a twist of his calloused thumb, the warm California air desperately crawling to take their place in his lungs, but forced out by tar and nicotine. He doesn't give it the opportunity. The second he breathes in the West Coast air- The second it makes its way through- that means this was all real. When disassociating was so easy, why on earth would he want to let this be real?

Thankfully the walk to his local corner store was just a few blocks away, red rimmed eyes skimming the packed space for barely a moment before settling on a pack of sour Skittles. The exhausted teenager at the counter knows him well enough by now and added a pack of Newport’s before Matt could even ask. The gesture, no matter how small, demonstrated a familiarity that makes him feel decidedly uncomfortable.

“Thanks.” He mumbled, the door shut behind him before he heard any reply.

He hated familiarity. Always had. Unless it was familiarity with one _stupid fucking person_ -

Matt shook his head with a shiver, as if a head-to-toe body roll would get the crawling presence of Mello finally out of his system. Of course it didn’t, but maybe it would one of these days.

It's a longer walk back to his apartment than it felt the way there- cars shot by him with little regard for lanes or speed limits, and across the street he could palpably watch as groups of giggling, drunken friends turned into women guiding skittish gentlemen into apartment buildings. He can barely remember what homeless shelters in Brisbane looked like- he was in the system so fast and scooped to England quicker than he could fathom.

He wished he remembered a little more- it probably would've prepared him better for whatever lifestyle this was supposed to be.

A nearby Honda splashed into a pothole right beside him, the mixture of sewage and spilled liquor splashing just a few droplets onto the worn toe of Matt's boots. He kept walking. The apartment building he’d settled on is slate grey and chameleon-like when surrounded by similar units, the tiny windows looking more like a jail than a home. The door to the lobby was open- it was supposed to be locked, and every once and a while he'd seen the owner post notes begging the tenants to please just make sure the door is shut behind you—

But it isn't, and Matt breezes inside, his bowed head and greasy hair leading the way up a few flights of stairs until he reached unit 305. He'd lost the key to the lobby by day 2. L always said his carelessness would be his downfall.

_ Click. _

_ Fuck, I hate it here. _

_ Click. _

_ Click. _

He all but collapsed into his apartment, the beep of his security alarm informing him of his own arrival. Three locks are frantically bolted behind him. For just a moment, he's frightened. It’s a vulnerability he was hoping would have faded by now- a permanent feeling that he was making a mistake, that he left too soon, that there really was just no plan whatsoever except chasing down a sunflower daydream that craved not _his_ attention, no. He found weak validation with Matt, but not what he craved from L- Matt was never exactly what Mello was craving. But God hemissedhimsomuch why is the door sticking-

And then it's over.

And he's left with the lingering stench of his own stupidity coming up to meet him. It was a fools errand to come here, but his feeble pride and troubling desire to see the last of the richness from his childhood, the heat and challenge that saturated every pore when they were together- drove him here. Mello would lean on his shoulder, and despite being the younger, their slight height difference would draw Mello into Matt's chest in the dead of night when reality felt just a little too crushing at times. The whir of the ancient furnace would lull the two of them to sleep, Mello falling asleep almost immediately once he reached Matt and Matt in his awkwardness would creep over him like a spider to escape his grasp and something much worse.

But he's not there. He's here, in America, standing stiff as a board just barely in the doorway of his unfamiliar apartment. The weight of an empty wallet like a hot coal in his pocket. He promised he'd give himself a month to find Mello before re-evaluating whatever he planned to do with his life. That left him 3 days, and he still couldn't believe how deeply unprepared and miserable he was.

He was happy to find some work here and there, flexing just a small sliver of his skills at a local hacking competition. Just enough to make people interested, but not enough to make those watching, worried.

He slipped off his boots and dragged himself slowly through the living room of the apartment, rifling through a four day old 7/11 bag on the counter for—oh—a rice krispie square. Perfect. Back onto the pleather couch he sat, the indent from his body still lightly pressed from when he'd left less than 20 minutes ago. Ripping the wrapper off with his teeth and shoving the sweet treat into his mouth, he allowed the garbage to flutter to the floor, joining the amalgamation of old food and cord and plastic that could only be called trash at this point.

He might look for Mello again- might spend some time searching him up with every pseudonym or real name they’d tossed around in the dead of night as a joke. Or maybe he’d mess around on Monastery, open ended discussions lending themselves to the kind of interaction he loved most- as distant as possible.

Matt wouldn’t, though. Like most nights, he’d probably flip on the TV and just wait for time to pass. Tonight was for wallowing, as most were. He would spend some time doing all of the above- the worlds most lifeless boredom jerk-off attempted some time between 4 and 5 am, which only dug the hole deeper. The final metaphorical punch to the gut had to be the morning sun which taunted him through the window just as it began to peak, the dawn a cruel and taunting twilight that made time more fathomable. 

Matt lit his millionth cigarette that dangled expertly off his bottom lip and he booted up the Gamecube, allowing his mind to wander and his hands to work.

He’d keep trying.


	2. you (and me) leaving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh Matt.... sorry u cant make someone like Mello change his mind.... it'll be okay probably.

Mello’s energy felt like a sheet of paper trying to contain a bomb. Technically, yes, there was a barrier in the way of impact, but it was so transparent and feeble that anyone within the immediate vicinity could see how close it was to exploding. After L died, that paper was replaced with an hourly mist of water at best- or whatever was less effective at keeping in an explosion than paper.

Things were worse.

Mello was frantic, throwing clothes out from his drawers and leaving them in heaps on the creaking wood floor of their shared dorm room, fishing out loose change from a few rolls of socks that he’d been hoarding for God knows how long. Matt watched with barely masked discomfort, sitting cross legged on his bed just a few inches above where Mello was crawling.

“Mells—You doing this doesn’t change anything. You don’t need to make, like… A statement to everyone.”

Matt’s eye was twitching, arms propped up like tent poles directly behind him to keep him upright. The decades old mattress squished under his palms, his fingers gripping the duvet tightly. If Mello’s bomb was kept suppressed by paper, Matt’s was with tinfoil. You could barely see it, but the building heat was a different kind of intensity.

Mello offered only a grunt in response, so clearly focused on his packing that Matt is almost sure his roommate didn’t even hear him.

“Hey, did you fucking hea-“

“Shut up Matt. Just shut up.”

Standard Mello behaviour, but it still stung a little. Matt was a nervous talker, and the quick response from the tornado beneath him doesn’t deter him.

“How are you gonna eat. You’re shit at cooking. Do you even know how to get on a bus? How are you gonna get around? You look like a girl. You’re gonna have to cut your hair or some shit so pervs don’t like... Kidnap you.”

That finally elicits a response, and Mello snorts, pausing briefly to roll his eyes at Matt before resuming.

“I’m not going to get kidnapped. I already have a plan in place. I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t think I could actually make a difference.”

 _Well, actually, there’s a safer way you could make a difference_.

Matt chose to bite his tongue at that- bringing up Near’s invitation to Mello to assist him with the Kira case was one of the most insulting things he could’ve said to him, and it had taken _weeks_ before the burn subsided.

“You don’t know that.” He frowned, shifting to peek over the bed at Mello’s bag. Three sweaters, two pairs of pants, a rosary, and about five books, all jammed in a black nylon dufflebag with threadbare straps. Nearly every single one of Mello’s possessions. “Can we at least talk about it. You can’t come back if you leave. Roger’ll chop your dick off.”

Mello’s laugh was quiet and brief, so barely focused on the conversation. He was too busy counting bills and coins he’d hidden around his room, pulling up the grates in the heaters to fish out money and lists of contacts that he’d been stashing. Loose change rattled and rolled on the uneven oak wood floors, Mello sprawling out to desperately chase them and jam them back in his travel bag.

“Well, I’m not going to come back so I don’t really need to worry. Plus, I thought we sorted out months ago that Roger only likes little boy dick if it’s attached to something alive.”

Matt was too scrambled to laugh back at the sudden crass change in conversation, watching Mello click his bag shut with a finality that swallowed Matt whole. He wants to add something, comment on how Wammy’s manager was too weak to have sex with his underage pupils anyway but for once, it feels like it just wasn’t the time or place.

“I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” He’s said it about a thousand times today, but he’s praying that maybe this time it’ll have some impact. He’s sure it wont.

At Matt’s reoccurring comment, Mello finally moves to stand upright, sauntering up to him only to pull his goggles from his face, snapping them onto his eye sockets with an artificial laugh. It’s a cruel gesture and Matt winces, pushing them above his forehead to keep his hair from his eyes.

There’s gonna be fucking lines on his face now-

“Asshole.” Matt pushed them back up again, eyes watering just slightly from the impact.

Mello’s gaze lingers, crossing valleys of freckles and tanned skin from frequent smoking sessions. It’s a noticeably long pause, punctuated by a heavy silence, and he turns back to his work. He can’t focus if he stays here.

“You keep saying that. When you’re ready to be less of a wuss we can talk.” It wasn’t an invitation to join him, Matt knew that much. His feelings were hurt and he kept it to himself.

“Yeah, right.”

And they’re quiet again, Mello leaving wordlessly to the bathroom. Matt always wished he’d said more.


End file.
